


everywhere i look i fall

by skvadern



Series: if we make it through the night everybody's gonna hear us [7]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Cosmic Horror, F/M, Multi, Other, Sasha James Lives, creepy monster flirting, discussions of unreality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:36:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24272938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skvadern/pseuds/skvadern
Summary: “It wears on you, doesn’t it. The strain of so much darkness, so much awful knowledge.” Michael’s alien voice softens, almost cooing. “Poor thing.”Sasha's life has become unrecognisable.
Relationships: Michael | The Distortion/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James/Michael | The Distortion, Sasha James/Michael | The Distortion/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: if we make it through the night everybody's gonna hear us [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555078
Comments: 22
Kudos: 130





	everywhere i look i fall

**Author's Note:**

> last semester of uni and depression are a fantastic combo lads. however i am now back, with almost a whole degree, slightly better mental health, and a chapter for u all. things r probably gonna get a bit darker from here on out, but probably only canon levels of dark. probably.  
> title from no-one's here to sleep by bastille

All around her, sandstone cliffs rise towards the brilliantly blue sky, swirling bands of red and gold that seem to radiate coolness, dropping the temperature in the winding passages to a comfortable warmth. Sasha picks her way across the damp sand and pooled water that carpets this strange stone maze, taking deep breaths of the salt-scented wind that twists through her hair.

It’s not real, obviously. But this is probably the closest thing to a holiday she’ll have for a while, so she might as well make the most of it.

A little flash of colour catches her eye, and she wanders over to the rock face to see a little sprig of flowers growing on a rocky shelf. The petals are the same vivid, almost painful blue as the sky – like all her Michael dreams, the colours just nearly too much. It’s definitely been toning it down, though – she doesn’t wake up with eye strain anymore.

Sasha reaches out and runs a careful finger over one delicate, curling petal. The pad of her finger comes away smelling of lemon curd, of all things, and she can’t completely restrain her fond smile.

“You like it here.”

She turns slowly to find Michael leaning against a stone wall, the lines of the sandstone twisting oddly around it’s presence. It doesn’t really have a face right now, but there’s something in the way its head tilts that suggests a smile to her.

“Shockingly, it’s not horrible,” she tells it, figuring she might as well encourage good behaviour. “Well done with that.”

Michael smiles brilliantly. Literally brilliant; when its not-face splits open, the sunlight sparkles off things that really aren’t teeth. “You’re very welcome, little assistant. You seemed like you could do with something… not horrible.”

“Keeping tabs on me, are you?” Sasha asks. The veins on the flower petals curl around each other – at first, they seem nonsensical, but if she looks closer she’s certain she can discern a pattern. “I though you said you wouldn’t.”

Michael giggles. “Whyever would I agree to that?”

Sasha considers arguing the point, she really does. It’s not that she’s comfortable with this capricious, alien horror spying on her, because she really isn’t. It’s just…

It isn’t wrong. She needed this dream, tonight, the state that her life is in at the moment. Even her normal work has become harder, now that the comforting veil of self-delusion has been pulled away and she can no longer lie to herself that she’s cataloguing, investigating and filing real life horror stories. And then there’s the investigation she and Jon are still doing, their worries about Elias, that oppressive, awful gaze that fixes and burns on the back of her neck whenever she’s in the Archives, from the moment she steps over the threshold.

Just the thought of what she’s got waiting for her in the world makes her sag, a little.

“It wears on you, doesn’t it. The strain of so much darkness, so much awful knowledge.” Michael’s alien voice softens, almost cooing. “Poor thing.”

Sasha very carefully doesn’t look at it, keeps her face blank. God knows, she’s already shown too much weakness here.

“You know I can help you,” Michael continues. “You don’t have to go back to those nasty Archives. All you’d have to do is walk through my door.” Its voice has dropped to a croon, humming through Sasha’s bones in a way that really shouldn’t feel comforting. “I’d take care of you. No more fear, no more pain.”

“But none of it would be real,” Sasha replies firmly. Like her tone is going to make Michael leave off. The peace she’d felt is dissipating like mist, leaving a strange, shuddery tension in its wake.

Michael giggles “What is reality, but a clever lie your brain tells you? Not once in your life have you ever truly perceived the world you live in, and you never will. At least here, you won’t have to perceive the cruel parts. Only beauty, only comfort.”

The soft, resonant care in its voice chills Sasha through. “Why the sales pitch?” she asks quickly. “You’ve touched on stuff like this before, but never so blatantly.”

“Matters are becoming more, ah, _complicated_ ,” Michael replies, still so horrifyingly gentle. The waking world is becoming less and less safe for you, and you seem determined to work yourself right to the centre of it all. Perhaps I worry.”

“And perhaps you’re lying, and I’m just another Helen Richardson,” Sasha retorts. That’s a reasonable assumption, isn’t it? That would be the smart thing to think.

“Perhaps,” Michael replies agreeably. She’s sure it’s not just her imagination, it’s actually gotten closer to her. Close enough that if she just swayed backwards a little, they’d be touching. “But you don’t believe that, do you?”

“Belief isn’t everything. Sometimes your gut instinct is right, sometimes it’s just another lie your brain tells you.” She keeps her eyes fixed on the flower, even as the little hairs on the back of her neck prickle with Michael’s closeness. “I know I shouldn’t trust you.”

“Really? What’s the worst I could do to you?” it giggles, delighted by its own little joke.

Sasha doesn’t answer – she doesn’t want to give it ideas. Instead she says, “Jon isn’t here.” She regrets it as soon as she does – the implication that she’d consider staying if he were rings loud in her ears.

“I thought you might react badly if I lied that he was,” Michael says calmly

Funny, that she’d never considered that before – that Michael could make false people, populate her dreams with the unreal faces of her loved ones. For a second, she’s choked by overwhelming horror. “Yeah, I really would have. Don’t ever, ever do that.”

“Of course,” Michael shrugs fluidly. It takes another step, until it’s pressed lightly against her. Sasha shudders, a full-body involuntary jerk, and Michael’s laugh set the stones ringing like fine crystal.

When impossibly long fingers cage lightly around her waist, Sasha freezes. The fluffy little animal living in her hindbrain is screaming madly, and she’s suddenly very aware of her heartbeat, the frantic rushing of her blood.

“Michael?” she says, wincing at the tremor in her voice. “Let me go, please.”

For a second, she can feel the fingers tighten, edges scraping against the fabric of her pyjamas. Then they’re gone, and so is Michael, and so is the flower and the cliff and everything else, and Sasha is coming awake in her bed. Her heart is still pounding, muscles locked up and shaking just a little.

She’s also achingly, meltingly wet.

For a second, she just stares down at her crotch, irrationally furious with her stupid body. Then, with a jerk, she realises something else is wrong. Jon stayed over again last night, and his pillow might be dented, but it’s long since gone cold.

“Shit,” she mutters, mentally throwing her hands up at the whole situation. Her alarm clock flashes a bright red four and two zeroes, like it’s laughing at her.

“Screw you,” she tells it, before shoving herself out of bed to go find Jon.

He’s in the living room, pacing a hole in the carpet. His laptop is open on the table, and as she watches he hurries over to it for a second, checking something on the screen before resuming his pacing.

“Good, you’re awake,” he says, when he spots her, and immediately continues. “I’ve been thinking, Gertrude left hardly any personal effects in her office – apart from her laptop, of course, and the key, whatever the hell _that_ opens, but what about her flat?”

Sasha takes a deep breath. Looks like she’s not going to get any more rest tonight. “What about her flat, Jon?”

Jon’s face is alight with almost-manic fervour, hands slashing sharply through the air. “It’s been wrapped up in all sorts of complications – Gertrude hasn’t officially been declared dead yet, and she was paid up for the next few months. It shouldn’t be hard for us to break in, how much security could she really still have – “

“Jon!” Sasha interrupts sharply, and he falls silent. His hands clench into fists before he forces them back open.

“Jon,” she repeats, softer this time. “How much sleep did you get last night?”

A quick, jerky shrug, and Sasha notices that his collarbones are starker than normal, where they peak out of his pyjama top. When had he lost weight? “I don’t know, is it really that important?”

“You look like shit,” she replies, too worried not to be blunt. “I honestly don’t know how you’re standing right now.”

Jon laughs sharply. “I’ve had a lot of practice with sleep deprivation.”

Sasha wants to rub her face, press on her eyes. Her facial muscles feel strange and stiff with exhausted tension. “Why won’t you sleep, Jon?”

Jon stares blankly at her for a moment, before jerking to face the window. His fingers grasp at the curtain, twisting the fabric between his fingers. “When I sleep, I dream. And when I dream, it’s invariably a nightmare. A very specific nightmare, and,” he snorts bitterly, “it’s even longer now.”

“You’re dreaming about Helen Richardson?” Sasha asks carefully. She’s honestly not sure what else to say.

Jon nods, a sharp twitch of a thing. When he speaks again, the words seem to haemorrhage from his cracked lips. “She wanders and wanders on bloody feet, and no matter how many mirrors she walks through, there’s never an exit. My eyes burn, my head _aches_ , but I can’t look away. I can’t ever look away.” When Sasha gets closer, she sees his eyes are squeezed shut, tight enough to twist his entire face. “Tonight, she called out to me. She asked me what her name was, said she’d forgotten it. She asked if she was real, and I couldn’t answer her. I just _stared-_ ”

On that last word, Jon’s voice breaks in two. He sinks onto the sofa, head in his hands, shoulders quivering.

“I’m tired, Sasha,” he admits, soft and shuddering. “I’m sorry, I’m just really tired. That’s all.”

“I’m tired too,” she replies, and immediately wishes she could take back the words, or at least the tone. Jon looks like she’s just slapped him, a little. Taking a deep breath, she relents. “Okay, so, Gertrude’s flat. What are you hoping to find there?”

“Anything that might point to who killed her, anything at all.” He turns to stare up at her, eyes wide and burning from their bruised-looking sockets. “Three gunshots, Sasha. My predecessor was murdered, and whoever it is, the police investigation hasn’t found them yet. Based on what Constable Hussein told me, I doubt they ever will.”

“Well I know who I suspect,” Sasha mutters. “Elias.”

“Yes,” Jon replies, “that seems a fair assumption, based on how inquisitive he’s being about our investigations. But there’s no _proof_ , is there?” He turns back to the window, fingers still playing with the curtains. “Never any proof.”

“What was it he told you?”

“That she ‘died in the line of duty’,” Jon repeats, a sardonic smile creasing his face. “Smug prick.”

“Yeah,” Sasha replies. “That sounds fairly ominous, in hindsight. But there’s plenty of other possibilities. Gertrude must have had a hell of a lot of enemies, Michael included.”

“You think it could have killed her?” Jon asks sharply.

Sasha considers the question. “It definitely wanted to. But I don’t think it did. Guns don’t really feel like it’s style, you know?”

That gets her a dry chuckle. “No, you’re right.” He moves away to look out the window, eyes intent on the dark street below. “And, of course, there’s whatever is lurking down in the tunnels. The thing that almost trapped us.”

Sasha nods. “Okay, so we’ll go check Gertrude’s flat. Or, actually, I will.” She silences Jon’s outburst with a steady, stubborn look. “ _Don’t_ , okay? You’re in no fit state to be breaking into anything, and I’d rather we didn’t get arrested.”

“I don’t like you going alone,” Jon mutters, and no matter how much Sasha wants to scoff, there’s real and naked fear in his face.

“I’ll bring someone,” she says, “a friend.”

“Who?” Jon asks, too sharp for Sasha’s comfort.

“Melanie,” she replies, “you remember her. Gave a statement a while back, knows your friend Georgie.”

“Melanie King?” Jon scoffs.

Sasha rolls her eyes. “Yeah, Melanie. I don’t know anyone who’s better at breaking and entering, and you don’t either.”

“Well,” Jon says thoughtfully. “There’s always Michael. It could just pop a door open in the bedroom, stab the alarm.”

Sasha stares at him. “I’m sorry, you trust _Michael_ over Melanie? Come on, Jon.”

“Of course I don’t,” Jon mutters, rolling his eyes. “I was just saying.”

“Yeah, well,” Sasha replies, “I’m not exactly eager to go visiting Michael right now.”

“Yes, of course,” Jon replies, solicitous in his brusque way. He probably thinks she’s talking about their trip into its corridors. To be fair on him, she hasn’t told him about the Michael dreams she’s had since their... excursion. “You call Melanie, then. I will-“

“You’re not going into work,” Sasha interrupts, seeing where his thoughts are going immediately. “For one, it’s four in the morning –“ she ignores Jon’s slightly shocked expression at that, “– for another, Jon, you’re way too keyed up to do anything properly.”

“I can’t just… sit here,” Jon hisses. “There’s so much to do – not even our, our ‘extracurriculars’, the Archives are still an utter disaster-“

“That can wait,” Sasha shoots back. “Take a sick day, Jon. Save you getting in Martin and Tim’s way.”

Jon glares at her, and she glares right back. Finally, he sighs, looking down as his shoulders slump.

“Fine,” he mutters, “you win.”

Immediately, Sasha feels like a wanker. She knows how much all of this has been getting to Jon, sleep deprivation and paranoia eating at him. Her usual tactics of bullying people into being okay again isn’t going to cut it against all of this. 

“Hey,” she says, approaching the window to stand beside him. “I’m not trying to ‘win’, you know that, right? I just… I worry about you too.”

“I know,” Jon sighs, and tilts to knock his shoulder into hers. “I do, really.” He shoots her a quiet, cautious look, then moves quickly in front of her, pressing his back up against her chest. When Sasha’s arms come up around him, he sags into them, a deep sigh seeps from his lips, and Sasha holds him tighter.

Jon is such a dear, slight weight in her arms, and when his head rolls on his neck to settle on her shoulder, Sasha can feel herself getting a little stronger. Strong enough to face the day, at least.

She can catch up on sleep tonight. She’ll be fine.

**Author's Note:**

> i will be real with u, there is no updating schedule. if u all want more of this, u r entirely at my mercy. f to u quite frankly
> 
> [this series has a playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/sarahlrchalk/playlist/6gMCGcMgKXhJ1MmMKdqifp?si=5xshkOfHQyWc6JEWr_vTGg)


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